Dol. What fays your Grace?

Fal. His Grace fays that, which his flesh rebels againft. Hoft. Who knocks fo loud at the door? Look to the door there, Francis?

Enter Peto.

P. Henry. Peto, how now? what News?

Peto. The King, your Father, is at Westminster,
And there are twenty weak and wearied Pofts,
Come from the North; and as I came along,
I met, and over-took a dozen Captains,
Bare-headed, fweating, knocking at the Taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

P. Henry. By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame, So idly to prophane the precious time:

When Tempeft of Commotion, like the South

Born with black Vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmed Heads.

Give me my Sword, and Cloak:

Falstaff, good night.

[Exit.

Fal. Now comes in the fweetest Morfel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpickt.

door? How now? what's the matter?

More knocking at the

Bard. You must away to the Court, Sir, prefently, A dozen Captains ftay at the door for you.

Fal. Pay the Muficians, Sirrah: farewel Hoftefs, farewel Dol. You fee, my good Wenches, how men of Merit are fought after; the Undeferver may fleep, when the man of Action is call'd on. Farewel, good Wenches; if I be not fent away poft, I will fee you again, e're I go.

Dol. I cannot fpeak; if my heart be not ready to burst--Well, fweet Jack, have a care of thy felf.

Fal. Farewel, farewel.

[Exit.

Hoft. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty nine years, come Pefcod-time; but an honefter, and truer-hearted Man. Well, fare thee well.

Bard. Miftrefs Tear-sheet.

Hoft. What's the matter?

Bard. Bid Miftrefs Tear-fheet come to my Mafter.
Hoft. O run, Dol, run; run, good Dol.

[Exeunt.

ACT

K. Henry Bute'er they come, bid them o'er-read these

O call the Earls of Surrey, and Warwick

Letters,

And well confider of them: make good speed. [Exit Page.
How many thousands of my pooreft Subjects

Are at this hour afleep! O Sleep, O gentle Sleep,
Nature's foft Nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my Eye-lids down,
And fteep my Senfes in Forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, lyeft thou in fmoaky Cribs,
Upon uneafie Pallads ftretching thee,

And hufht with buzzing Night, fly'ft to thy flumber,
Than in the perfum'd Chambers of the Great,
Under the Canopies of coftly State,

And lull'd with founds of sweetest Melody?
O thou dull God, why ly'ft thou with the vile,
In loathfom Beds, and leav'ft the Kingly Couch.
A watch-cafe, or a common Larum-Bell?
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy Maft,
Seal up the Ship-boy's Eyes, and rock his Brains,
In Cradle of the rude imperious Surge,
And in the vifitation of the Winds,

Who take the Ruffian Billows by the top,
Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning Clamours in the flip'ry Clouds,
That with the hurley, Death it felf awakes?
Canft thou, O partial Sleep, give thy Repofe
To the wet Sea-boy in an hour fo rude?
And in the calmeft, and most stilleft Night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King? Then happy Low, lye down,
Uneafie lyes the Head, that wears a Crown.

Enter Warwick and Surrey.

War. Many good-morrows to your Majefty.
K. Henry. Is it good-morrow, Lords?

War. 'Tis one a Clock, and paft.

K. Henry.

K. Henry. Why then good-morrow to you all, my Lords: Have you read o'er the Letters that I fent you? War. We have, my Liege.

K. Henry. Then you perceive the Body of our Kingdom, How foul it is; what rank Diseases

grow,
And with what danger, near the heart of it.
War. It is but as a Body, yet diftemper'd,
Which to the former ftrength may be reftor'd,
With good Advice, and little Medicine;

My Lord Northumberland will foon be cool'd.

K. Henry.Oh Heav'n, that one might read the Book of Fate, And fee the Revolution of the Times

Make Mountains level, and the Continent,

Weary of folid firmness, melt it felf

Into the Sea; and other Times, to fee
The beachy Girdle of the Ocean

Too wide for Neptune's Hips; how Chances mock
And Changes fill the Cup of Alteration

With divers Liquors. 'Tis not ten years gone,
Since Richard and Northumberland, great Friends,
Did feaft together; and in two years after,
Were they at Wars. It is but eight years fince,
This Percy was the man nearest my Soul;
Who like a Brother, toil'd in my Affairs,
And laid his Love and Life under my foot:
Yea, for my fake, even to the eyes of Richard
Gave him defiance. But which of you was by?
You Coufin Nevil, as I may remember, [to Warwick,
When Rickard, with his Eye, brim-full of Tears,
Then check'd and rated by Northumberland,
Did fpeak these words, now prov'd a Prophecy.
Northumberland, thou Ladder, by the which
My Coufin Bullinbroke afcends my Throne:
(Though then, Heaven knows, I had no fuch intent,
But that neceffity fo bow'd the State,
That I and Greatnefs were compell'd to kifs)
The time fhall come, thus did he follow it,
The time will come, that foul Sin gathering head
Shall break into Corruption: So went on,
Fore-telling this fame Time's Condition,
And the divifion of our Amity.

War.

War. There is a History in all Mens Lives,
Figuring the nature of the Times deceas'd;
The which obferv'd, a Man may prophefie,
With a near aim, of the main Chance of things
As yet not come to Life, which in their Seeds
And weak beginnings lie entreasured.

Such things become the Hatch and Brood of Time;
And by the neceffary form of this,

King Richard might create a perfect guess,
That great Northumberland, then false to him,
Would of that Seed grow to a greater falseness,
Which should not find a Ground to root upon,
Unless on you.

K. Henry. Are these things then Neceffities?
Then let us meet them like Neceffities;

And that fame word, even now cries out on us:
They fay the Bishop and Northumberland
Are fifty thousand strong.

War. It cannot be, my Lord:

Rumour doth double, like the Voice of Eccho,
The number of the Feared. Please it your Grace
To go to bed, upon my Life, my Lord,
The Pow'rs that you already have fent forth,
Shall bring this Prize in very eafily.

To comfort you the more, I have receiv'd
A certain inftance that Glendower is dead.
Your Majefty hath been this Fort-night ill,
And these unfeafon'd Hours perforce must add
Unto your Sickness.

K. Henry. I will take your Counsel:
And were thefe inward Wars once out of Hand,
We would, dear Lords, unto the Holy-Land.

SCENE II.

[Exeunt.

Enter Shallow and Silence, with Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, and Bull-calf.

Shal. Come on, come on, come on; give me your Hand," Sir, give me your Hand, Sir; an early ftirrer, by the Rood. And how doth my good Coufin Silence?

Sil.

Sil. Good Morrow, good Coufin Shallow.

Shal. And how doth my Coufin, your Bed-fellow? and your fairest Daughter, and mine, my God-Daughter

Ellin?

Sil. Alas, a black Ouzel, Coufin Shallow.

Shal. By yea and nay, Sir, I dare fay my Coufin William is become a good Scholar? He is at Oxford ftill, is he not? Sil. Indeed, Sir, to my Coft.

Shal. He must then to the Inns of Court fhortly: I was once of Clement's-Ian; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet.

Sil. You were call'd Lufty Shallow then, Coufin.

Shal. I was call'd any thing, and I would have done any thing indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will. Squele a Cot-fal-man; you had not four fuch Swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again: And I may fay to you, we knew where the Bona-Roba's were, and had the best of them all at Commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a Boy, and a Page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

Sil. This Sir John, Coufin, that comes hither anon about Soldiers?

Shal. The fame Sir John, the very fame: I faw him break Schoggan's Head at the Court-Gate, when he was a Crack, not thus high; and the very fame day did I fight with one Sampfon Stock fish, a Fruiterer, behind Grays-Inn. Oh the Mad Days that I have fpent? and to fee how many of mine Old Acquaintance are Dead?

Sil. We fhall all follow, Coufin.

Shal. Certain, 'tis certain, very fure, very fure: Death is certain to all, all fhall Die. How a good Yoke of Bullocks at Stamford Fair?

Sil. Truly, Coufin, I was not there.

Shal. Death is certain. Is Old Double of your Town living yet?

Sil. Dead, Sir.

Shal. Dead! See, fee, he drew a good Bow: And Dead? He shot a fine Shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and betted much Mony on his Head. Dead? He would have clapt in the Clowt at Twelve Score, and car